


no honor in death by flu

by coronaofastar



Category: Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, God Do I Love Banter, Mentioned Hodge Starkweather, Mentioned Stephen Herondale, Parabatai, Sickfic, Subconscious Pining if You Look Real Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 16:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronaofastar/pseuds/coronaofastar
Summary: “Drink,” says Michael, pressing the bottle into Robert’s chest, “a third, at least. Or so help me, Robert Jonathan, I’ll withhold your blankets.”Robert scowls. “That’s blackmail.”“That’s me trying to make sure my parabatai doesn’t die of the flu.”Alternatively, Area Man With No Sense Temporarily Gains Sense to Take Care of Friend with No Sense, and Does Not Do a Terrible Job.





	no honor in death by flu

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this anywhere but ao3, it has been reposted without permission. Please let me know.
> 
> Based on prompt 38, "Even sick you look like an angel." (source: https://serving-inspiration.tumblr.com/post/163730353017/100-dialogue-prompts-5-part-1)
> 
> This is set when Robert and Michael were still at the Academy, around sixteen, maybe. It's also set before Michael's crush on Robert came into full effect - I have a whole freaking timeline on this, guys, and the fic that expresses all that is COMING FOR YOU.
> 
> ...probably in fifty years because I can never finish anything, but shh, a girl can hope.

 “Not,” Robert warns tiredly, “one word.”

 From the doorway, where he stands with one hand on the doorknob, Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Even sick you look like an angel,” he quips, and, laughing, dodges the pillow Robert pitches at him, even if it does fall short. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

 “I’m going to set you on fire.”

 Michael raises a disbelieving eyebrow, amused. “Uh-huh.”

 “You’re not  _ supposed _ to laugh at me,” grumbles Robert. He sounds so petulant Michael has to stifle a grin. “As my  _ parabatai _ , you’re obligated to take my death threats seriously.”

 “Is that code for please help me?”

 Robert huffs. He’s leaning back against the headboard of his bed, half-dressed. Both arms are threaded through the sleeves of a grey sweatshirt, but he seems to have run out of energy just short of pulling the garment over his head, either too achy or too tired. “...yes,” he admits. “But only because I’m cold.”

 “You keep telling yourself that.” Michael shuts the door to their dorm room behind him and goes over to help tug the sweatshirt down. IDRIS is printed in large black letters on the front, the fabric fading and soft with wash. It’s also very familiar. “Is this mine?”

 “You wear your clothes warmer,” Robert tells him, as though that explains  _ anything at all _ , and then looks mournfully over at Michael’s bed - where, Michael notes, the blanket cocoon Robert was turtled down in this morning seems to have migrated. “Can you please bring the blankets back? I miss them.”

 Michael presses the back of his hand to Robert’s cheek. He’s still burning up, and somehow even warmer than he was when Michael left for class this morning. “You can have two blankets,” he decides, and gets up to grab them. He stops mid-action, though, when he catches sight of the nearly full bottle of water on the nightstand. “Did you drink anything?” he asks incredulously.

 The silence that follows serves as answer enough. Michael groans. “By the Angel, Robert.”

 “I was asleep all day,” Robert protests, but at least he has the decency to sound appropriately chastised and guilty.

 “Drink,” says Michael, pressing the bottle into Robert’s chest, “a third, at least. Or so help me,  _ Robert Jonathan _ , I’ll withhold your blankets.”

 Robert scowls. “That’s blackmail.”

 “That’s me trying to make sure my  _ parabatai _ doesn’t die of the flu.”

 And then Robert starts actively dying. It’s what it sounds like to Michael, anyway, rough, hacking coughs that leave him doubled over, gasping for breath. “Even if he’s giving it his best shot,” Michael adds, rubbing his back.

 “Shut up,” Robert wheezes, but the edges of his mouth are curving up.

 “If you die of the flu, do they still add your bones to the Silent City?”

 “I - maybe?” More coughing. “There are Nephilim who die of illness.”

 “Yes, but is it  _ honorable _ ? Does it count as an honorable death?” Michael insistently pushes the water bottle at Robert again. He takes it this time, which probably goes against every stubborn Lightwood gene in his body.  _ That _ makes Michael uneasy. “If it makes you feel better, half our group is out, too. Stephen went down yesterday and no one’s seen Hodge in days.”

 “He’s probably in the library.”

 Shrugging, Michael gets up to untangle two blankets. “I can’t imagine they’d let him stay there with the flu from hell, but he might’ve crawled into a shelf or something. Would explain why nobody’s found him.”

 The blankets hit Robert’s face with a soft  _ fwump _ . Robert doesn’t even so much as blink. “You’re assuming people actually go to the library.”

 “No, we’ve been - ” Michael pauses. Thinks hard. “Surely we’ve - no. No. Jesus Christ, you’re right. We’ve never been in the library. How did that happen?”

 “I think we spend too much time doing stupid things,” Robert says, with all the air of one imparting some sage bit of wisdom. He’s gotten a blanket halfway draped over his head, the other blanket tangled around his legs, and does not seem particularly interested in more suitably rearranging either of them .

 “Research, Robert,” says Michael, indignant. “ _ Worthy  _ research, excuse you.”

 Robert’s blue eyes, a touch glassy with fever, stare at him from the shadows of his new blanket cocoon. It’s less a cocoon and more of a wrap, really. “Do you not remember the time you wrenched your knee because you wanted to know how many flips you could do mid-air before landing?”

 “Worthy research,” Michael repeats, but he’s smiling. “You didn’t stop me, if I recall correctly.”

 “Michael, the Angel couldn’t stop you if he tried.”

 “Drink your water and shut up, Lightwood.”

 “Demanding, demanding,” Robert murmurs, but he does obediently unscrew the cap and drink while Michael strips out of his training gear. Dinner’s in an hour. “I assume you’re not coming down to the mess?” Michael asks, pulling a black shirt over his head. It may or may not be one of Robert’s. Only Robert’s shirts could possibly be folded with such precision.

 Robert makes a face. “Not unless you drag me.”

 “I figured.” Michael sits down at the foot of Robert’s bed, pulls the tangled blanket from his legs, and tucks it around him properly. “Do you need anything?”

 “The sweet release of death,” Robert says flatly, curling into a loose ball. Asleep for most of the day or not, he still looks wrung-out. His short dark hair is sticking up in messy tufts, and his eyes are already half-lidded and drowsy again. He looks like he could sleep straight through the next few days even if someone set their room on fire.

 “So, soup then?” Michael teases. He gently ruffles Robert’s hair and stands. “If you cough yourself to death before I come back, I’m going to be so mad at you.”

 “Then don’t leave,” Robert mumbles into the blankets.

 For a minute, Michael just stares at him, bemused, wondering if he’s hallucinating. Robert has never, ever, outright told Michael to stay, not even when they were children.

 “On second thought,” he says slowly, poking Robert in the ribs so he’ll move over, “I think the soup might poison you instead.”

 Robert shifts willingly enough, though he does blink blearily at Michael a few times. “You’re going to get sick, you know,” he says hoarsely, as Michael kicks off his boots and settles next to him.

 Michael shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m going to get this either way,” he points out. “Between you and the rest of our friends, I don’t think I’m going to escape this one.”

 He almost expects Robert to protest more, but Robert just murmurs, “Guess not,” and turns over, fitting himself along Michael’s side. It’s a little too warm for comfort, but Michael will manage. 

_ And I’ll be here when you wake up. _

**Author's Note:**

> Robert's middle name is Jonathan because 1) I headcanon that they made a pact to name children after each other, and Michael kept that promise even after The Evil We Love, and 2) I can and will name anyone I can Jonathan in this universe. It's just too funny.
> 
> Someday the ending sentence is going to break into my house and replace all my tape with plastic wrap and I will look back with regret, but that day is not today, so *pops champagne* 1k for once in my damn life!! woop woop


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